Taken
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Callie/Erica angst - 3 parts. When Erica loses a patient who happens to be Meredith's and Derek's son, she's thrown into devastation and blame. How she eventually learns to live with herself, and how her and Callie's relationship grows because of this.
1. Chapter 1

The sheet slides over his face, and then it's done

The sheet slides over his face, and then it's done. Ten hours of surgery; an aching back and bladder – feet that feel they can't carry you another step, and it ended in five minutes with a heart that just wouldn't start again.

It's easy for you to decide you win some, you lose some. It's easy to decide that it's left up to some great Fate, or that maybe it was human error, because doctors aren't God and Christ, don't you feel that every day – but this was straightforward. An infant with a birth defect that nine times out of ten can be fixed. And the worst part of it all?

You have to tell Meredith and Derek that their son died on the table.

That, out of everything? Makes you wish you'd decided a different profession instead.

/

You wait for her to come out of surgery, your long black hair tied efficiently back – you know that she'll be surly and tired even if it went well, because that's what happens when Erica stands on her feet for hours with low blood sugar.

And you know that you'll cuddle her in another hour, massage the place where her back aches from standing (and she won't consider orthotics – not even to be more comfortable, she's that vain and afraid someone will find out that she has some sort of a weakness), and you'll kiss her warm forehead and feel her eyelashes flutter against your cheek, listening to her breathing get a little more regulated, her body grow heavier in your arms. She sleeps marathons after a surgery like this one. You love to watch her face smooth out like a child's.

Meredith stands to the side; she has nothing to say, being as it's her two-year-old on the table and she's a mother who forgets what it's like to be a doctor in times like these. Derek got called to surgery and he isn't here to make sure that she's okay, so you volunteered to sit with her. Meredith never says much when she's happy – but she clung to your hand until she couldn't anymore and that spoke more than her words could.

You sigh and recross your legs, and Meredith looks up at you with blue eyes that are hunted and scared.

"Tell me again that it's routine?"

"It's routine, Meredith." You try to modulate your voice, but this is about the fifteenth time she's asked the question and it's starting to grate.

She suddenly begins to cry, and you feel bad. "Mer, I'm sorry."

"No, no." She sniffles, wipes a hand across her eyes until you hand her a Kleenex (stuffed up the sleeve of your shirt like your grandmother – Erica always laughs when she sees you pull one out). "I'm sorry," she finishes. "I shouldn't be this fragile, I guess."

"I think it'll help when you know something," you say lamely, and then look down at your hands, with one of Meredith's twined between the palms. Your capable surgeon's hands holding hers and you still feel so inadequate to help her.

She smiles for you, anyway.

"Thanks, Callie."

"For what?" It's weird, because you're not close with her, but no one should have to go through this alone.

She doesn't say anything, but you can read it all, anyway.

/

You step out of the scrub room with your hands half-bleeding from your vicious washing, and take a deep breath to clear the tears threatening to spill out of your chest and eyes and throat. You've got half a mind to tell an intern to deliver the bad news, but you know that you'd never forgive yourself if you didn't tell Meredith yourself, and so you walk out into the waiting area with your hands clenched tightly together.

She stands immediately – you can see she's been crying and holding Callie's hand. You can't even look at Callie – it's enough to keep your eyes focused on those burning blue eyes. Meredith won't break your gaze and you know she knows, anyway.

When your voice finally comes, it's hoarse, rusty with disuse after ten hours. "There were complications. We managed to stop the bleeding, but we couldn't get his heart to start again."

And then Meredith, her voice totally devoid of emotion, asks oddly, "Time of death?"

Without even thinking, you tell her. "15:46."

Her face crumples – melts, almost, and she sinks to her knees in the middle of the floor. The harsh sobs are ripping, renting the air and you put a hand to your chest suddenly, feeling it tighten with the grief of this woman who's just lost her son.

"Where's Derek?" she gasps. "Where's Derek? Where's my husband?"

Somehow, he's paged. Somehow, he manages to get her off the floor of the waiting room where she's kneeling, half-gasping, half-sobbing, showing emotion that no one thought she was even capable of. And his face is worse – it's twisted and hurt, because when they lost little Devon, they lost a part of their joy and culmination of the journey they'd both been on for four years.

You've been in this situation a million times. You've been the surgeon left holding the pieces; left watching the grief unfold in front of you. But you've never been the surgeon having to take responsibility for a friend's child's death. And this is why you should have refused to do it, you realize now. You were too close even though you stand outside of them all.

And Callie stands with you, her hand on your arm, her head on your shoulder. But you can't even feel it – you can't feel her because your whole body's encased in ice.

She's crying, but you can't make the tears come when you remember the look of utter hatred in Derek's eyes.

/

She won't look at you. She can't be touched. You have a hard time offering warm comfort, the type that you, raised in the empathetic, loving Spanish culture, have no trouble offering in normal situations. You hug everyone. You touch strangers' arms. You kiss friends, family and even acquaintances twice on the cheek in greeting. But Erica isn't that type – she's the type that takes a long time to even touch someone's shoulder.

She sits in the corner of the on-call room and she has her shoes half-untied. Her hands hang down between her knees and her hair, the long, rich, thick locks of golden hair, obscure her face. She doesn't say or do anything. She just sits and that's what's frightening. You've never seen her like this.

"Erica?" Your voice, just like with Meredith, rings out lamely. She doesn't move, and you suddenly realize that standing across the room from her isn't making this better.

"_Mija_, look at me."

She doesn't move, but you notice a tear drop onto the generic linoleum. You put a hand on her stiff shoulders and start to rub, feeling the knots of surgery move under your powerful fingers. More tears appear in dots on the lino.

"Whatever this is, it's not you, okay? This isn't your fault."

She doesn't say anything, but a sigh puffs out from her lips and she sniffles a little bit. You pull her into your arms, and she doesn't engage, but she does rest her head against your shoulder and you feel her tears wet your scrub top.

"Oh, hey," you murmur. "Shhh." Her tears start to come harder and faster, until her breath is catching in her throat and you can hear rattling when she breathes. You alone know of her asthma, and you alone pull her inhaler, hidden in the inside pocket of her scrubs, out and place it to her lips.

She breathes deeply, once, twice, and then raises her wet face to look you straight in the eye, pieces of hair stuck to her cheeks and chin, her blue eyes meltingly, achingly heartbroken.

You murmur, "I love you."

She doesn't say anything at all, but she buries her face back in your shoulder and lets you stroke her hair and rub her back until her breathing evens out and her head grows heavy. Long after she falls asleep, you hold her close, counting her heart beats that synchronize with yours.

/

You're not allowed to come to the funeral. A note slipped through the door of your locker tells you so.

It's written in Derek's strong, black hand, all the t's crossed; all the i's dotted.

_Erica:_

_Both Meredith and I realize your hard work in trying to save Devon; we know that you feel badly about the situation and wish to deliver your condolences. However, under the circumstances, we would both rather you stayed away from Devon's funeral today. It will be hard enough to say goodbye to our son without having to engage your grief as well. I'm sure you understand._

_Derek Shepherd._

It's not even that the note is hurtful. It is, but it's understandable. It's the guilt that it strikes into you – the fact that you, and you alone, are responsible for this occasion. That you caused the child to lie in a tiny white coffin, in a tuxedo that will forever remain stiff with newness and little wear – hair that will remain slicked across his head and eyes that won't open again. They were Meredith's eyes – those cheerful blue, little-boy eyes.

He'd been so cheerful even though he'd had an IV put into his arm; even though most children cried at the sight of you, he'd simply giggled and tugged at the strings of your scrub cap. He'd clung to you, refusing to lie on the gurney, and you'd carried him down the hall into the OR, and he hadn't cried, not even when the anaesthesiologist had put the mask over his face and he'd closed his eyes.

The pain is incredible – like a thousand knives stabbing into your heart. You drop the letter on the floor and lean your head against the cool locker door, feeling the tears well into your eyes; even though you swore that crying doesn't help – that it's better just to do your job without thinking.

Callie appears at your side. "Hey, babe." Her voice is so comforting and you let your hair fall over your face, just so that she doesn't have to see the tears again. It's a public place, after all. You don't cry, and you don't want her to comfort you where everyone can see you. It's a point of pride – and you know it's stupid, but there it is.

"Are you ready to go?"

You suddenly look her in the eye – how can she ask that question? But then you realize, she doesn't know about the letter.

"Uh," and your voice is stuttery, rough and upset – "I have a surgery that came up."

"Well, can't you cancel? I mean, this is sort of important." Callie's voice is sort of incredulous, and you realize the ridiculousness of the situation. After all, why wouldn't you attend a friend's son's funeral? What would be the reason for missing it?"

"Well . . ." and you debate showing her the letter, but then your pride pushes the thought down. "I just need to do this. Why are you questioning me?"

She looks surprised and then a little angry. "Erica, what is wrong with you?"

You don't answer her, just turn your back and start walking away.

"Erica!" Callie's voice turns panicky, and you almost turn back. Almost.

But the door swings shut behind you and you head to the ER, forgetting about the letter lying on the floor of the locker room until it's too late.

/

The funeral is beautiful, as funerals go. A nurse from the Peds unit sings "Ave Maria" and the priest conducts a beautiful mass. There's no eulogy – after all, what do you say about a two-year-old? His life wasn't long enough to really document beyond first words, first steps, first smiles. It's still fresh in everyone's mind.

Meredith cries at the side of the church. She's not Catholic, but she puts up with it for Derek's sake. Derek stands by the casket with his head bowed; the tears fall down his cheeks and despite your hatred for the way he's treating Erica, your heart breaks for him. You put a hand on his shoulder as everyone files out and he covers it with his own. Mark gives you a sombre look as he and Derek heft the coffin onto their shoulders, it being so small that only two pall bearers are required. It's heartbreakingly small; too small to even be real.

Later on, at the wake, Cristina asks you where Erica is, but all you can do is shrug. "She has a surgery."

"Well, couldn't she cancel?" Even Cristina, who's one of the most unemotional people that you know, has tears on her cheeks. It's Meredith's baby that she's lost – and she loves Meredith more than most people realize.

"I said that, too." You shrug again. "She wouldn't look at me."

"Rumour has it that Derek told her to stay away," says Alex, sidling up to you and Cristina with a plateful of food. He's wearing a suit, but his face is devoid of tears and he doesn't look that upset. You hate him for a moment before realizing that he's dealing with this the best he can.

"Derek wouldn't do that," says Cristina, shaking her head. They, with you, cast a look at Derek, who's swilling a glass of Scotch (about three fingers more than there should be in a proper glass of Glenlivet) and staring moodily down at a picture of his son propped on the table.

"Does he blame her for the death?" You hate the way you sound, so you clamp your lips shut and drop your eyelashes.

Alex doesn't say anything, but his expression does, and you sigh. It explains a lot.

Later on, you catch up with Erica outside the hospital.

"Hi, _mija_." You kiss her, but she doesn't respond, and then you get a little angry.

"Erica, for God's sake." You spread your hands apart and she looks down at them, her expression unreadable.

"Sweetheart, what? What can I do to help you?"

"Callie, I can't, okay? He hates me – they all hate me because I killed their son, and I just can't. I can't do it."

"What is it you need to do?" Your voice stays gentle, but her eyes are blazing.

"It's so easy for you – you're not responsible for it, are you? You didn't hold the scalpel, getting passive-aggressive letters from brain surgeons who blame you for their son's death. I couldn't stop the bleeding, okay? I couldn't do it, and now I have to live in hell because of it."

"Erica, shh, come on." You try to put your arms around her, but she pushes you away and your eyes widen.

"I can't do this."

And with that, she leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

You may have moved here from Germany as a child, but one thing you never get used to is the constant rain

You may have moved here from Germany as a child, but one thing you never get used to is the constant rain. It's soft – sometimes it's pelting, but these days it's just oppressing. It's late winter and you know that you've got another month of wet before the sun will even dare to shine, but at this point, you don't know if you can make it.

You stand over his grave; you found it by asking some discreet questions around the hospital; nurses that were invited to the funeral when you were told to stay away. Some attended the graveside service, too – they told you how beautiful it was, on that crisp day with a rare shaft of sunshine that fell on the roses and the shining white coffin. The nurse that told you had tears in her eyes – talked about Devon the little angel, taken away too soon.

You don't believe in God, but that phrase sort of struck your heart and made the nurse look at you sympathetically. It's well-known, thanks to Derek, that you were the one responsible for Devon's surgery.

"Dr. Hahn, you did all you could."

And you just stared at her.

"Of course I did all I could! I wouldn't have let a child die!" Your voice rose hysterically, making her widen her eyes in surprise and shock.

"That's not what I meant, no, doctor," she'd muttered, and headed off in the other direction, trying her best not to look back at you.

You shrug it off, now. Staring down at the tiny tombstone; the newly-engraved letters spelling out Devon's name and dates, only two years apart, barely two years apart. You'd been invited to the birthday party two months ago, but you don't like children, as a rule, and you didn't go.

"I'm sorry, buddy," you mutter, and then blink at yourself, talking to a dead child. But somehow, talking to Devon now is a lot easier than dealing with his cheerful personality, his ebullient nature in life.

"Look, I don't know what your dad told you, but I really did all I could. I wouldn't have just left you there, by yourself. I had your back – I promised you that."

And you had, holding him in your arms, feeling the unfamiliar soft skin and plump limbs of holding a baby; smelling baby powder and milk and diapers, that you didn't expect to smell on a two-year-old, but there you are. And you'd promised that you'd get him back to his mommy and daddy.

But doctors don't make promises. And they especially don't make them to children.

Your voice breaks, standing there in the rain, standing over this grave that still smells of wet earth and rotting flowers, thinking of the little boy who would never smile again.

"I'm sorry, Devon. I'm so incredibly sorry. I should have done better somehow."

Slumped beside him on the ground, you fail to care that your fawn-coloured coat is getting wet or that your blonde hair is plastering to your head.

It's a chance to get absolution – why does absolution never come?

/

Okay, piss you off and you've been known to make other people's lives hell. You storm through the ER and you snap on gloves and knock interns to the side when it's time to get down to business, and you know it. If you hadn't been distracted long ago, you would have made an excellent Chief Resident. You're not a bone crusher for nothing, and people know to stay out of your way.

But no one really knows how to deal with you when you're like this. It's a sort of devastation, because you can't find Erica and you haven't been able to find her all day. She's cancelled her surgeries, and she didn't bother to let you know. This is what's scary. What the hell is broken Erica capable of in this sort of mood?

It's not that you don't trust her, but you know her past. She's not one to open up, but the scars say it all and you feel for her, because you were the exact same way. You're women who had to learn to pick up the pieces; you're women who had to learn to love yourselves instead of what society wanted you to be. And that's why you feel her on a deeper level – in this sort of mood, rejected, blamed – utterly alone – what would she do?

And so you manage to worm it out of Alex, who saw her leave the hospital earlier that morning.

"She took off, Cal. I don't know where."

"Evil Spawn . . ." - and you sort of choke on the name Izzie Stevens has for him, changing your tune a little – "I sort of really need to know what you saw and where she was heading."

"Like I said, Callie, I have no idea. She brushed by me in a hell of a hurry and I haven't seen her since. I think she was heading west, but I didn't stay to see if she turned or not."

"Were you smoking again?"

"Can you blame me?"

You brush a hand over your eyes. "No, at this point, I can't. I could use one myself."

"Well, that's all I know. Sorry." He tosses you a sympathetic glance. "She probably just needed some time. Derek's sort of been on her since it happened."

"I know, but . . ." You sigh again. "Okay, thanks."

"Sure."

You watch him walk off into the distance thoughtfully and turn back to the task at hand. If she shows up, then she shows up. You're not about to waste time looking for her when she's in this sort of snit.

You come to regard that as a mistake later on.

/

The cold's soaking through to your bones; you can't remember being so cold in your life. When you stand, you can literally hear your bones creak. But somehow, you feel slightly better – or maybe, it's just numbness. Either way, it doesn't matter.

You leave the little gravestone (heartbreaking in the rain) and head back to the car, but somehow, you can't really bring yourself to turn on the heat, so you slump against the seat and close your eyes for a moment before you realize that this is a bad idea and you need to stay awake.

The muzziness of the grey day gets to you on the way home, and maybe you don't see the stop sign – maybe the bright orange is dulled against the other monochrome colours that winter's turned into. Maybe colour is one of the first things to go when you're grieving. Either way, when the accident happens, you're not paying attention, and even if you were, your reflexes probably wouldn't have kicked in enough to stop yourself from plowing into the side of the minivan.

The last thing you remember, before blacking out, was your plea to the God you don't believe in that there weren't more children in the back of that van.

/

When she comes in, you realize you knew it all along. She's destructive because that's how she knows how to deal. You recognize the signs, but you're further along emotionally than she is. Nevertheless, you blame yourself, because you know you could have stopped it somehow, if you'd reached out a little more – been there a little longer and not let her walk away from you.

But the doctor instincts kick in. No use crying over spilt milk or what could have been. She has a milk concussion and a couple of bruises, but she's otherwise fine. Thankfully, so is the other driver of the van, but you know although physically she's fine - mentally? She's far from okay.

She's balled up on the on-call room bed when you walk in, and the first thing you think to do is to just hold her.

She fits into your arms easily, her head against your shoulder. You stroke back the damp blonde hair and gently kiss the bruise on her face, just below her eyes, which are so lost and empty that you almost don't recognize your strong Erica, the woman who kicks ass and takes names. There's nothing left of her here. She's just so broken.

She's muttering under her breath, but you don't understand what she's saying because she's muttering in German. It's rare Erica will go back to the language of her youth; she has no accent and she doesn't speak the language to any of the German patients that cross her path, even though she's fluent like you are in Spanish.

You cuddle her closer. "Shh, shh."

Her tears are streaming down her face and she clings to you harder and harder all the time, almost digging her nails into you, until you actually break her hold on you and stare into her face.

"Erica, _mija_, please talk to me," you beg her, hating yourself for the plaintive tone in your voice. "Come on . . . don't do this."

She focuses on you for a moment, but then fades out again, until you actually have to shake her. You realize at this point that she's frozen to the bed; that her jaw is slack and that there's a stain spreading on her scrub pants, and then you just hold her tightly.

It's a time for psych, maybe – but you know it'll pass. She'll be embarrassed at losing this much control, but thank God it was in front of you and not someone else she barely knows. You'll help her clean up, stand with her under the shower and help her change into fresh scrubs, and then she will sleep. Because she sleeps so deeply – as if sleep can erase whatever pain she has when she's awake.

Sure enough, she co-operates when you gently strip her down. Your hands, so strong in surgery, are soft on her skin as you help her into the shower; you rub shampoo into her hair and she comes awake a little more, rubbing soap onto herself and onto your body; you suddenly kiss her under the hot needles of the shower and she's almost herself again when you wrap a towel around her and hug her tightly to your chest.

She lies in your arms, smelling of body wash and sweet shampoo, and she falls asleep with her hands tucked under her chin and her body in a tight fetal position.

When you wake up, however, she's gone again.

/

You know Callie saw it happen. You know that you totally broke; jumped ship; lost your shit, whatever the hell you want to call it. You fucking lost control of everything – including your bladder. It's disgraceful. It's horrible.

You're cutting viciously into a practice doll when she enters.

"Erica?"

And suddenly you can't stand the sound of her sweet voice; the concern. "What?"

Your snapping voice pauses her at the door.

"I just came to see if you were okay," she finishes lamely, not sure how to deal with you in this mood, and you toss your hair over your shoulders, the picture of control now.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Your scalpel makes a rough sound, cutting through the fake skin. The ventricles in this fake heart aren't to scale and you swear under your breath, tossing the scalpel down.

"Listen," you begin, "I'm not in the mood for sympathy or tenderness or whatever. I hit a wall. That was it. It was nothing more and nothing less. You shouldn't feel like you saw something else."

"Erica, don't." And her beautiful brown eyes are melting and sad, making it harder.

You suddenly whirl on her. "I told you, I can't do this, Callie. I can't open up. I can't pretend it's okay that I'm hated and blamed and . . ." You throw up your hands. "Shamed! In front of everyone! That Derek Shepherd and Meredith Grey look at me and wish I was the one in the grave instead of Devon!"

"Erica!" Now Callie's voice is getting angrier. "You need to calm down, sweetie, okay?"

"Don't!" and you bring your hands squarely down onto the table with incredible force. "Don't."

Callie just stands there; and then she turns to leave. "Okay. I won't."

"Callie, I – "

"No, look. I get it. Don't. I get it."

You've held a broken heart before; but you've never felt its effects until the door slides shut behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

"Blow out the candles, Devon

"_Blow out the candles, Devon! Go ahead, buddy!"_

_Your cheerful voice rings out as Devon, a large chocolate cake set before him, sputters over the surface of it before plunging both his fists into the gooey centre. Meredith laughs and snaps a picture to match the one from the year before._

"_Devon, smile, sweetie!" _

_His smile lights up the room and he happily crows, "Birfday! Devon birfday!"_

_Derek tousles his hair. "You're a big boy now, aren't you, buddy?"_

"_Big boy!"_

_When all the gifts are opened, and everyone's heading home, you stand a minute at the door to talk to Meredith about an ortho surgery you have scheduled tomorrow. Devon pads into the room, trailing a blanket and holding a bottle, which is supposed to be forbidden, being as he's just turned two._

_Meredith immediately lifts him up, and he lays his head on her shoulder, sucking his thumb and clutching his right ear. You gently put out a hand and stroke his hair._

"_Happy birthday, buddy."_

_He immediately stretches out his arms for you and you cuddle him in your arms for a minute as he giggles against your neck._

"_Cal. Callie."_

_As you leave, you regret that Erica couldn't have been there to see that, too._

/

You're scrubbing out of surgery when Derek comes in.

His face is white. He looks like he's lost weight, and he won't look you in the eye. As he scrubs in, you notice that he grabs the tap with his hands right after he finishes washing, and you open your mouth involuntarily as he grabs a paper towel from the dispenser.

Thankfully, he notices himself, and re-scrubs in.

You sigh. "Derek."

He turns almost immediately, his face twisted. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to talk about Erica."

You close your mouth and turn away from him, then.

"We will be having this conversation at some point, Derek," you reply, not really caring about his attending status right now and the fact that you're a resident who's cheekily standing up to her boss.

"Now's not the time, Callie."

When will it be the time?

Later, you're staring out over the lake when you see Erica bustling past on the bridge over reception. Immediately, you half-turn towards her before you remember the scene in the practice room, and then you turn away. For some reason, standing up for her – for your relationship – isn't worth it anymore. She'll never change. She'll never give back.

However, she stops in her tracks and staring at you consideringly, begins to walk purposefully towards you.

It's the sort of moment that's pivotal; you know that you could make or break something by how you act right now. Her eyes are still red; she's still pale-faced, but she's back to herself and you know that she's buried it somewhere.

But it's not an excuse. You didn't hurt her like he did.

So before she can get to you, you turn away and begin walking quickly in the other direction. Tossing a look over your shoulder, you immediately regret it when you catch her stricken face as she comes to stand at the spot on the bridge that you just left.

You can't deal with it. You're done, and she knows it.

/

So, you shouldn't have overreacted. Fine, you get that. It wasn't her fault and you know she was trying to help.

But you were on your own – you were standing on another shore. For one, you barely knew the little boy and yet failing to save him was among the worst mistakes you've made in your life. For two, she wasn't there for the letter. She didn't even see the letter. She's going on hearsay and she has no right to shut down on you. She doesn't know what you're going through.

And yet, the guilt is overpowering.

You broke down and she was there. She was there every time and you pushed her away.

Considering what you've fought for – it's ridiculous that this is even happening.

What's more ridiculous is the thought that you may have lost her forever.

/

_She swings her long black hair over her shoulder and flashes you her trademark bright smile. "You ready to go? Dare I call this what it is?" Her giggle is like a chime, and you can't help but smile back._

"_Do we want to label it?"_

"_Well . . . we don't have to," she finishes quickly, clutching her soft leather hobo purse to her side and biting her lip in that way that she has. You remember the way she bit her lip in surgery – when she didn't know – when you had to step up. And it was then that you realized that you could be a good teacher when the occasion called for it; you had the ability to find patience and understanding because you know very well what it's like to try something experimental and be standing on that side, not knowing how to proceed._

_And she's so beautiful tonight, with her sparkling eyes, that you slip your hand in hers as you walk through the doors and out into the shining wet night._

_It's the first time you considered rain could be beautiful, seeing it bead on the black hair of Calliope Torres._

_Later on, she kisses you under the dripping awning over the door of your apartment building and you hold her sort of desperately as the rain gets heavier. The kiss becomes hungry, and you end up slipping your hand under her shirt to feel the warmth of her skin against your fingers._

_Slowly, she slips her own cold hands onto your bare back (you gasp with the shock), and the two of you share a long look._

"_Do you want to come up?" you whisper to her, and for a fleeting moment, you're almost certain she'll say yes._

_But the evening ends with one more long kiss; one more look, and she turns to hail a cab._

_In retrospect, it made later dates so much better, saving it on the first date._

_/_

Later on, she corners you in the on-call room.

"Stop this."

"Stop what, Erica?" You roll onto your stomach and glare at her. How dare she stand there and act as if nothing has happened?

"Stop avoiding me." She sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, almost seeming afraid to rest her full weight next to you. And then she fixes you with a look that's more desperate than you've ever seen it.

"I know I've been a bitch. A bitch that doesn't deserve you – yeah, that's me. And I know all the apologies in the world won't fix it, Callie.

"But you didn't get it, okay? You didn't understand what it was . . . like. You didn't have to stand there and watch Derek Shepherd hate you, or find a passive-aggressive note in your locker the next morning telling you not to attend the funeral of a little boy who, let's face it, lit up everyone's lives."

She pauses, and then sniffles suddenly, a little crudely wiping a tear away from her cheek.

"So here it is. I didn't want to let you see this, because I fight my own battles, and I always have. And I didn't want you to do this for me. This was my thing, you know? I didn't see a reason for both of us to be hurting this much."

You're sitting up against the wall by this point, and after a moment of consideration, you take the letter from her.

Reading it, you can understand why she acted the way she did, almost immediately. There's something about the finality of the upright black writing; the way the ink is smudged slightly on the signature. The utter coldness of the words – the hatred oozing through.

The thing is, it's not the hatred for Erica that's prevalent here. The thing is, it's the hatred for the whole situation that made Erica the scapegoat. And what Derek failed to realize in his own grief was the fact that once you say something to someone else, you can't take it back, and you perpetuate the cycle of blame and anger. Revenge is rarely satisfying when it comes to death. It doesn't bring the person back.

So that's why you drop the letter to the floor, reach for her, and hold her as tightly as you can.

"I just want you to let me in," you whisper into the whorled ear, studded with tiny silver studs, one through her cartilage.

"I don't know how."

You sigh a little and rock her slightly back and forth – this woman of ice who can't seem to melt even in the warmest temperatures.

"Well, we'll work on that together. You just can't treat me that way. You can't act like it's my fault or be abusive like that." Your lower lip starts to tremble, and you bite it to quell its shaking.

She studies you so carefully, those blue eyes that are so deep and distrustful, and then it's her turn to pull you into her strong arms, stroking back your hair; cuddling you into her soft body.

"I love you, Callie," she says above your ear, her no-nonsense voice finally soft.

And finally, you hear it.

/

Derek Shepherd is in the elevator when you slide in after the day is finished. Callie's due to come over later, and you're feeling relaxed and not bothered by anything much. And really, it's been a good day – up until now.

He refuses to meet your eyes, and he deliberately turns from you and fixes his gaze on a spot high up in the west corner of the tiny electronic box. And suddenly, you get tired of it all, and you grab his arm, jerking it slightly to get his attention.

It certainly does. He jerks it away from you, looking startled, but his gaze is on yours, and that's when you begin to speak.

"You've been an asshole to me. You've been an asshole, and I don't even know why I'm doing this."

Your voice is tough and harsh, and he can't break your gaze. With one swift movement, you pull out the emergency stop and listen to the faint ringing as you continue.

"But I am sorry, Derek, and I mean it. I'm really sorry. I wasn't as involved in Devon's life as your other friends and I don't begin to understand what happened, but that does not give you a right to blame me or treat me like shit. Do you not think that I'm suffering my own personal hell because of this? Do you not realize that the last week has been hell for me?"

"Do YOU not realize that the rest of my life will be hell for me? Because you failed to save my son?" His voice is just as harsh as yours, and then you sigh.

"Yes, I realize that. I realize that more than you know. Because I'm always going to be remembered in your mind as the surgeon who killed your son. You won't remember how I fought to get his surgery moved because I saw a potential problem. You won't remember the hours I spent trying to get him to stop crying because of the needles and CT scans that scared the hell out of him. No, Derek, I'm just the surgeon who couldn't save your child, and you know what? That's a fucking heavy label to carry."

There's silence between you, although the alarm rings overhead.

"So do what you want. Believe what you want. And maybe one day you'll actually read the charts and find out that I did CPR for over ten minutes. And the nurses did everything they could to stabilize him, even as he bled out." Your voice starts to shake, and you clear your throat, avoiding Derek's gaze until you realize he's looking right at you.

"Erica –"

"Don't apologize, okay. I can't." You rub at your eyes and look at him straight again. "I just want you to know. I didn't treat him like he was nothing. I tried my best and you being a passive-aggressive asshole doesn't help the fact that I already feel guilty enough over this because of the sole reason that he WAS your son."

You release the stop, and ride to the next floor in silence.

When the door opens, he turns to you.

"Thank you for doing all you could for Devon, Erica."

You look him square in the eye and allow yourself to soften a little.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

/

The day is crisp; a fall day that's rarely seen in Seattle, land of rain. But the trees are whipping a little and there's a bright sun in the blue, blue sky. It's a good day for walking, and walk you do, through the cemetery's winding, silent paths.

When you get to the tiny grave, it's covered over with leaves. Quietly, you bend to brush them from his name, even though you know the exact font and size; the exact way it's spelled out there on the shining stone.

Derek clutches a handful of bright gerbera daisies, because roses would have hurt Devon's little hands and it's the closest you can get to a child-friendly flower. They make a bright splash of colour on the gravestone, and he steps back, tears on his cheeks, as you bend to put a hand on the stone.

"Hi, buddy. I'm here today to tell you exactly what happened when you were sleeping. You probably won't understand, but I wanted you to know the steps we took, because I told you I had your back in there. And I know you know this anyway, but I want to make sure that we're all clear up there."

Suddenly, you gasp, a large, painful sob that gets caught in your chest. Callie steps forward, but the hand that rests on your shoulder isn't hers.

Meredith Grey, with tears on her cheeks, has a hand on your shoulder and as you try to get ahold of yourself, she wraps her arms around you and just rests there, giving silent comfort to the woman who couldn't save her son.

Derek says in a low voice, "It's okay. He knows. He knows you did everything you could to save him."

"Does he?" You look at him through tear-filled eyes and notice his eyes are bright, too.

"Yes. He knows and he's okay with it."

Fifteen minutes spent at a small grave. Ten hours spent in surgery. A relationship saved and a child lost, and a friendship forged through the grief of it all.

He was lost, but he was never taken. And you learn not to take it for granted, either.

Nothing is ever routine; but some things are constant.

Love is always constant.


End file.
